“Why has so little been done to clean all this up?” Lucente shouted over the roar of the chopper’s rotors.
“This is actually a dramatic improvement,” Doron responded over his headset. “You should have been here the day after the firestorm. I’ve never seen such a horrific sight in my life. We have three thousand soldiers working sixteen hours a day burying bodies and remains. At night our air force sprays disinfectants, trying to keep disease from spreading. But it hasn’t been easy, and our experts are worried the chemicals could soon contaminate our water supply.”
They came over another ridge and found a dozen IDF bulldozers pushing bodies into mass graves.
“I know it looks bad,” Doron said before the question could be asked, “but there is no time to dig individual graves, gentlemen. As you know, U.N. disaster teams started arriving a few weeks ago to help, but with the winter rains it’s been hard to get all their heavy equipment in. And, of course, every airport in Lebanon was destroyed, so everything has to come in through Israeli military bases near the border and be driven up here on trucks. It’s very time consuming, very labor intensive, and very expensive.”
“And very slow,” Lucente added. “How much longer until you’re finished?”
“It’s hard to say,” said Doron.
“Best guess?” asked Lucente.
“Three or four months, maybe more,” said Doron. “It all depends on how much the international community will help, and on whether the weather cooperates.”
“What is being done for the local populations?” Lucente asked.
“Everything possible,” Doron responded. “As I stated in the report I sent to you, we’ve been airlifting in food, water, tents, clothing, electric generators, medical supplies, and as many doctors and nurses as we can spare. But the fact is, we’re only scratching the surface. We simply don’t have the money or the manpower to do more. That’s why I wanted you both to see for yourselves what the situation is. These dead were enemies of ours, but they deserve the dignity of a proper burial. Yet that’s impossible right now. And time is of the essence. Diseases like the avian flu are beginning to spread to the local communities. It’s a miracle that a full-blown plague hasn’t broken out yet. But it’s a very real possibility, gentlemen. It could happen at any moment.”
Words failed Costello.
He had never witnessed anything so horrible, and all he could think of were the words of the Hebrew prophet Ezekiel, cited by Dr. Mordechai in his now-infamous memo, describing not just a supernatural judgment of Israel’s enemies but its grisly aftermath.
Was this not happening right in front of him? Weren’t the birds of the air and the beasts of the fields gorging themselves on the flesh of the slain enemies of Israel, as they had been for months?
Costello had never tried to memorize the words of Ezekiel. Yet the words were now welling up from somewhere, and with them came a thought: how was it possible for someone writing 2,500 years ago to have predicted modern events with such eerie precision unless there really was a God, unless it was, in fact, actually possible for man to know Him and hear His voice and be guided by His words? Even for someone as irreligious as he, thought Costello, no other explanation seemed to fit.
The prime minister’s helicopter banked left.
Soon they came up over another ridge, where more IDF bulldozers were digging more mass graves.
Off in the distance Salvador Lucente saw a huge convoy of several hundred flatbed trucks heading south toward Israel. “Mr. Prime Minister,” he asked, “what are all those trucks over there?”
“They’re hauling abandoned Russian and Iranian and Turkish military equipment back to Israel so none of it falls into enemy hands,” Doron replied.
“Given all the pressing humanitarian needs, is that really a wise use of manpower right now?” Lucente asked.
“With all due respect, Mr. Foreign Minister, we have no choice.”
“What are you talking about, David?” Lucente countered. “Israel hardly needs more weaponry. Your situation has changed quite dramatically. You have no more enemies. I would think now would be the time to dismantle some of your military, not add to it.”
“Salvador, our forces have just captured six thousand Russian missiles, each of which is armed with tactical nuclear warheads. Do you really think it wise for us to just leave those lying around on the battlefield unsecured?”
21
Natasha Barak met the Bennetts as scheduled.
But she was not who Erin had imagined. She was taller than most Israeli women, almost Erin’s own height of five feet ten inches, with a slim, athletic build that suggested she spent quite a bit of time out of doors. She was also significantly more attractive than Erin pictured most professors of archeology to be. Natasha was in her early thirties and had shoulder-length jet-black hair, warm brown eyes, a slender nose, and a healthy tan that didn’t seem consistent with long hours cooped up in a museum. When they shook hands, Erin noticed Natasha was not wearing a wedding ring.
Natasha directed their driver to a VIP parking lot, then guided the Bennetts down a stone path and asked, “Have you ever seen the Shrine of the Book?”
“I’m afraid not,” Erin said as she held Jon’s hand.
“Ever been to the rest of the museum?”
“No, this is the first time for both of us.”
“My goodness, and you’ve been to Israel so many times,” Natasha exclaimed. “I’ve followed your work with the peace process for years, not to mention your romance and your wedding—mazel tov.”
“Thank you,” said Erin softly, allowing the hint of a smile for the first time in twenty-four hours. “Yes, Jon and I have been to Israel many times, but always on business, I’m afraid, never for pleasure.”
“Well then,” Natasha said as they approached the large white-dome structure of the Shrine and a set of stairs descending into a courtyard. “You’re in for a treat. It’s Wednesday. The museum is not yet open to visitors. You’ll have it all to yourselves.”
Erin traded glances with her husband.
“The prime minister asked us to come, so we have, but I’m afraid we’re not here for a tour,” Jon said as graciously as he could. “It’s our understanding your grandfather may be able to shed some light on why Dr. Mordechai was killed. That’s our only interest today.”
“Yes, of course, forgive me,” Natasha said quickly. “I meant no disrespect. I know you have suffered a great loss.”
“No apology is needed,” Erin replied. “We understand you were both close to Dr. Mordechai as well.”
The young woman stopped abruptly, turned, and looked them both in the eye. “My parents were killed by terrorists when I was seven. My grandmother died of cancer when I was nine. I was raised by my grandfather and Uncle Eli. That’s what I called him. He was my grandfather’s best friend, and mine. I can’t believe he’s really gone.”